


Pirates of the Caribbean: Blood Moon (Book III of King's Messenger Series)

by ShahbanouScheherazade



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9628217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShahbanouScheherazade/pseuds/ShahbanouScheherazade
Summary: In remote Cornwall, Jack Sparrow brings disturbing news to Nina - the Pearl and the notorious pirate who stole her have gone missing without a trace. Haunted by her estrangement from Hector Barbossa, Nina cannot escape the conviction that she may still be able to save the man who owns her heart, but only if she is willing to set out on a dangerous journey to discover his fate.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. Original plots and characters are owned by me.

 

 

 

The elderly judge looked on with a face of stone as the jury of Cornishmen returned to the box. Despite their being sworn to "faithfully try the defendant and render a true verdict," the judge's sharp ears had picked up the sound of muffled laughter from the jury room during their deliberations.

Bumpkins and idlers, the lot of them. He watched with thinly veiled distaste as they resumed their seats.

At least the Quarter Sessions were nearly over. He'd be off to London, and the sooner the better. Clearly, this remote, backward county softened the wits of anyone forced to live there. That was the only possible explanation for a discovery he'd made that morning.

Before donning his judicial robes, he had scanned the list of causes to be tried. At the end, one familiar name stood out.

"Nina Bitter? What the devil is this?" he had spluttered, pointing at the entry. "The Bitters are a fine old family – her grandfather was JP for Pencarren in my youth. There must be some mistake!"

"No mistake, m'lud," the clerk replied. "She's charged with smugglin' rum and was caught whilst landin' the cargo."

"She must have taken leave of her senses!"

The clerk coughed. "They say she heads a ring of Free Traders, as the locals call 'em." With a wink he added, "And she's the one they call 'Wild Nina'."

It was too much. A gentlewoman of good breeding, even holding a minor position at court, lowering herself in that way! The entire business was a personal affront.

"Then this Wild Nina person shall be brought in guilty," the judge retorted. "The weight of the evidence is overwhelming."

But that had been hours ago. Now, surveying the crowd of smirking spectators - thick as thieves, they looked - he was less confident.

Tightening his jaw, he glanced towards the dock. The accused woman stood there calmly, politely, taking no more notice of him than if he had been a buzzing gnat. Her dream-like gaze was distant, as though looking out to sea. Uneasily, he recalled the words of a colleague who held that "no Cornish jury will ever convict a smuggler."

Nonsense.

He addressed the jury. "Have you reached a verdict upon which you all are agreed?"

"We have, m'lud," said the foreman.


	2. The Moody Mermaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Sparrow's news awakens conflicting emotions in Nina and presents her with a fateful choice.

I first knew something was terribly wrong when my brother turned up at my smuggling trial.

The court was waiting for the jury to return with their verdict when I saw him. He was sitting far up in the gallery, looking every inch a pirate as he tugged at his dark, braided beard. Our eyes met and he flashed me a toothy gold grin.

Yet I knew, better than anyone, that Captain Jack Sparrow would never show his face in an English courtroom unless compelled by extreme circumstances. It wasn't that he feared capture by a sheriff, or (even worse) being recognised by one of the countless ruffians to whom he owed money – no, not at all.

It was simply Jack's view that courtrooms were the wellspring of bad luck, and so he avoided them the way other people avoid whistling past a graveyard. I would have sooner expected the Man in the Moon to attend my trial.

Something ominous was afoot.

By the look of disgust on the judge's face, I surmised that he had also noticed Jack. His gaze travelled from me to Jack's eccentric figure and back again. Then he picked up a quill and gave me an icy stare. "Friend of yours, I shouldn't wonder," he growled, just loud enough for me to hear, and turned his attention to his papers.

At that moment, the door swung open and the jury re-entered the court room. It seemed to me they had enjoyed their deliberations, although they made half-hearted attempts at solemn expressions as they resumed their seats.

The judge silenced the spectators and addressed the jury. "Have you reached a verdict upon which you all are agreed?" he intoned.

The foreman rose. "We have, m' lud."

There was a nervous little hush in the room as the judge proceeded with the second question: "If unanimous, what is your verdict?"

"We find the accused _**not**_ guilty!"

Cheers erupted from the spectators.

\- o -

A small knot of well-wishers gathered round as I left the courtroom. Amid scattered applause, someone shouted "Wild Nina!" I smiled and lowered my head, but kept walking. "Six times charged and never convicted!" shouted someone else.

Jack appeared at my side as if by magic. "Nice work, darlin'," he said, taking my arm. "Now - what say you to a quick glass at the _Moody Mermaid_?" He tipped his head to one side and indicated a painted sign-board some distance away where a pouting sea nymph's tail twined about the inn's name. "In honour of your acquittal, savvy?"

I lifted my eyebrows. "You came all this way to raise a glass with me, Jack? Very likely, I'm sure. Now what the devil were _you_ , of all people, doing in a court room?"

"Not 'ere," he muttered. "Let's go down t' _Mermaid_ first."

The _Mermaid_ had a goodly share of customers, but we sat more or less privately in one of the inn's four curtained booths. Once we had our bottle and tankards in hand, I expected to hear what had brought Jack to Cornwall; instead, he turned to small talk.

"Business doin' well?" He took a long swallow of rum.

"Quite well," I said. "In fact, that's our goods you're drinking right now."

"It'll be on the house, then, eh?" He grinned as he eyed my attire. "By the by, lovely dress for a trial. Makes you look like a vicar's daughter, and the apron's a nice touch. Who'd ever think you're an infamous smuggler?" Then he added, "And how's baby Matthew?"

I laughed. "Hardly a baby – he's a growing lad of five! I had a nursemaid for him while I was in nick – but I got word last week that she'd bolted."

"You might engage Gibbs – he's out of work."

My jaw dropped. "Why should Mr Gibbs be out of work?"

Jack sat forward and fixed me with a penetrating, inky stare.

"Now, darlin'," he said patiently, "I suppose you know who's stolen me ship yet again, and I expect you know I've been to the back of beyond huntin' him down. Again. So tell the truth and shame the devil, love: when's the last time you saw either him or the _Pearl_ , eh?"

"I saw him five months ago. Perhaps six." My pulse began to pound unpleasantly. Would Jack suspect that all was not well with my marriage? It wasn't uncommon for the demands of our several ventures to separate me from Hector, but this was different. We'd had a row, our tempers got the better of our judgement, and that was how we had left matters.

Jack studied me. "So . . . nothing since then? No letters, notes, rumours, signs, omens, trances or traces? Nothing at all?"

"No." I took a swig of rum and avoided his eyes.

He grimaced. "That's some bloody marriage you've got, love."

"What we've got suits me down to the ground," I snapped. If Jack dug any deeper I would never hear the end of it.

"Right. Well, he's gone," he said flatly. "Not 'can't-be-caught-by-Jack' gone - he's 'dropped-off-the-face-of-the-earth' gone, and so's the _Pearl_."

He drummed his fingers on the table. "I've got to say, love, it's looking very dire indeed. Your old scallywag may be done for. Worse than that, I may never find the _Pearl_." He sighed. "It's time we recognise the inescapable: It seems they've gone to the bottom."

At that point, my thoughts came to a complete standstill. A sickening helplessness grew in me until I was nearly overwhelmed. I choked out four words. "I don't believe you." But I did. There hadn't been a trace of insincerity in Jack's voice.

Then my words poured out - explaining, justifying, rationalising, as I tried to claw my way back from the abyss. "Listen to me – listen, Jack! You're telling me this because you can't find the _Pearl_. I understand how you feel. What he did was wrong, so naturally he doesn't want to be found. But you will find him – I know you will! He isn't, isn't… _gone_."

He cleared his throat and put his hand on mine. "Brat…"

"No!" I snatched my hand away. "I tell you he's _avoiding_ you!"

"Then it would seem he's avoiding you as well," he retorted. Then he gave me a thoughtful look. "Or perhaps you're avoiding him?"

"Fiddlesticks!" I declared, my face growing warm.

He sighed. "Look, love – I don't mean to start a row, and I've no intention of prying. Just send me word in the highly unlikely event you ever hear anything. Fair enough?"

"By all means." I chewed my lower lip for a moment. "But… in the meantime, you do intend to keep looking for him, don't you?"

"As time permits, darlin'. However," he sank his voice to a whisper, "you recall I have a certain venture in hand." Opening his coat slightly, he tapped the edge of a familiar map tucked inside. "Luckily I 'ad it on me person, or it would've been gone, along with the _Pearl_!"

My face fell. So Jack was still chasing that cursed Fountain, pursuing the one venture I hoped he had abandoned. I forced a rather anaemic enthusiasm. "Ah! Well, I suppose that _is_ lucky, isn't it..."

When we had emptied our tankards, we walked out to the stable yard. A coach was preparing to leave, and the air rang with shouts and confusion as men changed the horses and secured luggage. Passengers milled about, stretching their legs, avoiding beggars and dogs, calling out questions, and ordering a last-minute drink from the taproom. Adding to the commotion, a line of tethered horses snorted and stamped, waiting for their owners to return.

"Can't you stay a bit longer?" I asked. "You asked after Matthew. He should be arriving soon – Elizabeth's bringing him.

"Lizzie?" He froze for an instant, eyes wide with alarm. Then he smiled broadly, flourishing his wrists. "Of course you know I'd love to, darlin'," he insisted. "Unfortunately, I really must run. Time and tide wait for no man, and all that…"

"Indeed." I smiled. "But how will you travel?"

He ignored my question and gave me a wink. "Keep a weather eye, Brat." Then he turned on his heel and slipped between two of the tethered horses. He unhitched a handsome bay and was off at a fast gallop moments before the judge appeared in the yard, looking in vain for his riding horse.

\- o -

I passed the next hour pacing from the inn to the road and back again, waiting for the London coach. From my apron pocket, I fished out Lizzie's note, frowning as I read it for the tenth time:

 _M is with me – Mr D advises nursemaid left without notice. Expect us at usual place on the 8_ _th_ _of this month._

The "usual place" was the _Mermaid_ , where we divided our rum running profits and today was the 8th. But why had Matthew's nursemaid deserted him? It was a mystifying, upsetting message. I hoped it was no more than my headstrong, boisterous child proving too much for the nursemaid.

Just then, I was startled by dogs barking and the thunderous clatter of horses' hooves, as a coach and four rolled into the stable yard. Before it drew to a stop, the door was thrown open. Two little figures jostled to be first out, though it was five feet to the ground and the vehicle was still moving. From inside came Lizzie's voice, shouting, "Both of you wait! It's too high!"

Several things seemed to happen at once. The red-haired lad pushed his friend aside and took a great, reckless leap. I screamed and darted forward – too late. As he fell to the cobbles, a nearby ostler managed to half-catch him. He pushed the man away, picked himself up, and ran to me.

"You're here!" he yelled, throwing his arms about me.

"Matthew! Are you hurt?" Plainly he was not. My pulse slowly returned to normal.

He looked round excitedly. "I want to see Papa!"

"He's not here, darling. We'll see him later." I kissed him. "Now you two lads go and play, while Captain Lizzie and I talk business."

\- o –

Whilst our children played in the stable yard, Lizzie and I settled into a booth in the Mermaid's taproom.

"Firstly," I said, "please tell me about Matthew. I've been worried to distraction over it all, and sorry you were put to such trouble. What happened?"

Lizzie shook her head. "I've no idea. Mr Defoe presented himself at my door last week with Matthew in tow. He said the nursemaid handed Matthew over and then vanished, never to return! She took her luggage, so we presume it was deliberate. Where ever did you find her? I thought you looked after Matthew yourself."

"I did, but while I was being tried, I had to leave him with someone. Mrs Hutson had just hired a young shop assistant and she insisted on looking after Matthew, so I thought it would be alright. I even had hopes he would pick up a bit of Spanish from her."

"Hmm. From what I heard, she spent most of her time bothering Mr Defoe for stories about pirates – Blackbeard, Henry Morgan - and especially the famous Captain Jack Sparrow."

I gasped. "I hope he didn't tell her anything!"

"Oh, no," she assured me. "He kept strictly to tales of Blackbeard, he says. But the whole thing struck him as rather odd after she disappeared."

"I should have listened to my instincts," I said. "She never fitted my idea of a shop assistant. I'm not even certain 'Angela Sevilla' was her actual name. Did you ever meet her?"

"No. Mr Defoe said she was young and comely, newly arrived from Spain, with a quick, bold way about her."

I nodded. "Perhaps she got homesick…" But the thought of Miss Angela Sevilla prowling about my rooms and questioning Mr Defoe made me uneasy.

"By the way," Lizzie said with a smile, "congratulations on your acquittal. We made a good market on this last run – here's your share." She produced a leather purse and emptied its contents on the table. "Even Barbossa should be impressed." She pushed the empty bag towards me.

I gazed absently at the pile of sovereigns, unable to think of anything but my missing husband until Lizzie remarked: "You seem a bit troubled. I hope you're not disappointed."

I looked up. "Oh, no – it's nought to do with this." Then I told her of Jack's unexpected visit and that Hector had once again stolen the _Pearl_.

"But _why_?" she exclaimed with utter astonishment. "Why would he steal Jack's ship? Don't I recall you bringing him money for his own ship?"

"Yes, but I've no idea what he did with it. He certainly didn't buy a ship. Perhaps the _Pearl_ is his only love." Just as he would always be mine. It was a dispiriting thought.

I could hardly tell her the rest of Jack's grim report. Merely speaking the words made me feel that I had somehow reinforced the reality. I braced myself and went on. "Jack says they're lost at sea – ' _gone to the bottom'_ was the way he put it."

I hoped Lizzie would greet this news with scorn, but she took it quite differently.

"What a terrible end! I've always thought Barbossa could survive anything, but could Jack be right this time?" She frowned as she stared at the table. Then she fixed me with a sharp look. "What will you do about it?"

Emotions rattled about in my chest like jagged shards, putting me in a testy humour. "Nothing," I said, my voice sounding tight and defensive. "I shall do nothing at all. He can bloody well look out for himself."

She didn't reply; indeed she seemed at a loss for words.

"I can see I've shocked you." I exhaled slowly to calm my agitation. "The truth is, we parted on bad terms, and since then…" I shrugged. "And Jack doesn't know." And my heart had been broken ever since, but that was best left unsaid.

Lizzie brightened, trying to make the best of it. "Well, it's no surprise if you exchanged heated words – you both have spirited natures, I would say."

I smiled. "No need to be diplomatic – 'impetuous and hot tempered' is what you mean. We do have rows sometimes, and this one was a corker." I raised my chin and added, "But if I went too far, then he certainly did the same. I feel I'm owed an apology."

"I see." After a moment, Lizzie began scooping the gold back into the purse, and said: "Look, you haven't asked me, but… don't let pride keep you apart. One never knows the future. Will and I wasted months and months, each waiting for the other to beg forgiveness, thinking we had years ahead of us, but…" She put the last gold coin in the purse and handed it all to me. "There – I won't say another word." She glanced about the taproom. "Is Rufus here? I need to give him his share of the profits, then we're off to Plymouth."

"I think he's in the cellar," I said, my thoughts a thousand miles away.

Lizzie half rose, then sank back into her seat. "You don't think Barbossa could be in real trouble do you?"

"I hope not. I wouldn't wish harm on him for anything in this world," I said softly. "But what use would I be in any case?" Propping my chin on my palm, I stared at the table. "If he _were_ in trouble, I'd need a great deal of money to find him, ransom him, and who knows what else. More money than we make from smuggling runs…"

"But he has money put by and you said he gave you authority to withdraw it."

"I couldn't go that far - it seems so extreme. And I'd feel such a fool if nothing's wrong." I shrugged. "Perhaps he's found someone else. You never know what Hector might do."

"I don't deny he's unpredictable," Lizzie said, "but I think you're taking rather a dim view. At least I can help you with one thing: if the _Pearl_ was sunk and Barbossa with her, then Will would know. The next time I see the _Dutchman_ , I'll hail her and ask Will. At least then you'll know if the worst has happened."

At that instant, I glimpsed the parish constable angrily elbowing his way towards our table. He was escorting our boys, holding them by their collars as they protested and tried to wriggle free.

Once they reached us, the constable released his captives – Lizzie's son, who looked contrite, and Matthew whose expression was defiant.

"Where d'ye think I found these young varmints?" the constable began. "They was on the _Mermaid_ 's roof, a-peltin' folk in the yard wi' clots o' horse dung! An' this one near bit me 'and off!" He turned to Matthew. "You're a little buffer, you are!"

Matthew scowled. "And you're a _big_ buffer!"

"And _you're_ going to bed without supper!" I snapped, feeling like a rotten mother, "after you wash the dirt off your hands. No arguing!" I added as Matthew opened his mouth.

"A good hidin' wouldn't go amiss," grumbled the constable as he rubbed the bite on his hand.

"I'll decide his punishment, thank you," I replied. Then I rose from my chair and put a sovereign in his hand. "For your trouble, sir." He took it gladly and made his way straight to the barman.

"At least we had a chance to talk before all hell broke loose," I said to Lizzie as we both made ready to leave the taproom. "I can't thank you enough for all your help. You're a true friend, and I do want you to ask Will – it would ease my mind mightily."

She smiled. "I'll ask – but you may still need to search for him."

"No." I shook my head, determined not to be swayed. "What could I do for him that he couldn't do for himself? Anyway, it's likely nothing, and he'd only laugh or send me away."

Then I turned Matthew by his shoulders and ushered him up to my room.

\- o -

I am persuaded that only small children or drunkards of the very lowest order can secure a good night's rest at a coaching inn. Disturbances abound: servants and passengers constantly come and go along the passageways, horns blow at intervals to announce arrivals and departures, and the cobblestones ring incessantly with the clatter of horses' hooves.

My unrepentant son, tucked into the trundle bed, fell asleep at once. I lay down on the upper bed and listened to his peaceful breathing, hoping to drift off. But that night, nothing could help me. Each time I heard a coach's wheels, my eyes flew open. The pump in the yard made a vicious squeal each time someone drew water, and dishes rattled and broke in the kitchen. Heavy footsteps tromped up and down the wooden stairs whilst voices outside my door were variously raised in laughter, song, or argument.

At about midnight, there was a lull in the noise but sleep still eluded me. It was then that I realised it wasn't noise but my own state of mind keeping me awake.

I slipped quietly out of the bed, tense and exhausted. In search of solitude, I threw on a shawl and crept through the room's small window, on to the cold slate roof of the inn. There I perched in the chill night air, arms wrapped about my shins, looking down on the stable yard.

This was roughly the vantage point from which the boys had bombarded the inn's guests with horse manure. If Matthew had slipped – I closed my eyes and shuddered.

My efforts to teach and nurture this energetic, precocious lad were having limited success at best. Smuggling runs and royal errands left scant time to guide his development, and I feared the results. Indeed, he already showed flashes of the same wild temperament as his father.

I sighed. His father. The bad-tempered ruffian who still reigned over my heart. And now he was lost at sea. Could that be how it all was destined to end?

Impossible. Surely he was just avoiding Jack. But nothing could banish the echo of my brother's voice.

 _They've gone to the bottom_.

Those awful words, heard by so many sailors' wives, had now been addressed to me, and they raised a devastating possibility. I recoiled from contemplating the scene - Hector, alone and fighting for his life, the _Pearl_ consumed by the merciless ocean, never to be seen again.

Yet it need not be so! All I had was Jack's opinion - there was no wreckage, no body. For all I knew, he might very well be hale and hearty, and finished with me. Doubly so, if he had taken the _Pearl_ again. This prospect relieved me, but there were other fears. What if I sought him out only to find he had a new family? Or, like Blackbeard, several families? What humiliation and heartbreak that would bring!

But more than my own pain was at stake. I had a child to think of. How could I justify taking Matthew along, only to find a father who might reject him?

And yet, it was plainer each day that Matthew needed his father. I frowned. Or someone like a father.

I could think of only one person who would know what to do. One person upon whose help and advice I could rely. I entered the room again, lit a candle from the embers in the grate, and sat at the small desk.

I scribbled one note for Rufus and another for Lizzie.

As I folded the notes, a small hand was laid upon my wrist. Matthew stood quietly at my side, his hair tousled, his eyes solemn and questioning.

I guided him gently back to the trundle bed and kissed the crown of his head as I tucked him in. "Nothing's amiss, love. Go back to sleep. Tomorrow we will go up to London for a short time, and then I promise to take you on a special voyage to see your Grandfather Teague."


	3. The Emporium for the Whole Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the Minories, Nina moves ahead with her plan to seek advice from Captain Teague. But when the cost of her ship's provisions create a problem, she visits the London Exchange where more than one surprise awaits her.

We journeyed to London by coach, finding each passing day colder and wetter than the one before. The countryside looked indistinct and bleary through the vehicle’s rain-soaked windows, as if melting away in the steady downpour. I pictured the farms, fences, trees, hedges and houses dissolving into streams of colours that swirled together and ran off in one tumultuous river, leaving only an artist’s blank canvas. Then, with nothing to divert it, my mind skillfully painted this imaginary canvas with a series of fearful tableaux featuring Hector and the _Pearl_. Such fancies left me in a very low state, and no doubt I was a dismal travelling companion for poor Matthew.

When we arrived at the _Golden Lion_ , it was late afternoon, but so dark that the shops, even all lighted up, could scarcely be seen through the thick fog that had lowered over the City. We stepped out of the coach and inhaled the raw, wintry air and the choking stench of coal.

I took Matthew into the _Lion_ for a light supper, but I was nervous of the state of the streets. In such cold weather, every chimney in London would be belching forth soot, as most people would light fires to keep off the chill. The resulting mix of soot and fog would render our surroundings invisible. Still, the lodgings I used as a King’s Messenger were not far, and we really had no choice other than to venture forth on foot.

We lost no time eating our victuals; then I took Matthew’s hand and set out for Little Prescott-lane.

The lights of the _Golden Lion_ vanished almost instantly, leaving us alone in a grey, featureless void of penetrating cold. We felt our way cautiously through the mud-filled, slippery streets. At Mansell-street, nothing could be seen. We went a bit further down the road, and all at once I knew we were lost.

We halted and I made some little jest about it to Matthew, hoping he wouldn’t notice the unsteadiness in my voice. With no familiar landmarks, we could easily stray too far south, where mists rose from the great, unseen river, thickening the fog and leading many souls to their deaths when they fell into the strong, dark currents of the Thames.

I tightened my grip on my son’s hand. Which way to go? It couldn’t be far, but the silent, empty streets were obscured by the thick curtain of murk. I stood still and held my breath, trying to get my bearings.

Matthew shifted restlessly. “I’m tired...”

“Shh! Let me listen.”

I could just make out a strange, inquisitive sniffing and soft steps that seemed to be approaching. As I strained to hear, the sounds ceased. Directly before us, the long snout and chalky face of a large dog emerged from the mists like a ghost from the netherworld.

Matthew pulled free of me and threw his arms round the shaggy creature. “Tyler!”

“Angels of heaven,” I sighed. Tyler, a dog of uncertain ancestry, was kept by Mrs Hutson. He had the pointed ears and slightly mad, staring eyes of a shepherd’s collie, but presented a gangling, rather neglected figure, no matter how much the landlady fed him.

I took hold of the rope that was his collar. Tyler knew very few commands, but he knew the one I gave him. “Go home, go home!” He started off at once, pulling us along. A short time later, we were home and dry, warming our hands by the small hearth in my front room.

As we sat before the fire, I carefully surveyed my lodgings. Nothing appeared to be unlocked, missing or disturbed in the slightest, not even the mannequin upon which hung the only court dress I owned. Perhaps Miss Sevilla had no ill intentions. I allowed myself to feel easier about her departure.

Before retiring to the inner room, I arranged some bedclothes for Matthew on the settle, his favourite place to sleep. As he lay down, I eyed the five bookshelves over his head. “Now tell me why you will never again climb those shelves, darling,” I said.

“Because we have an accord,” he mumbled as I kissed him goodnight.

\- o -

The next morning, I awoke to find Matthew at my bedside, clutching one of my uncle’s books. “Tyler wants to come in,” he said. “He wants me to read to him.”

I yawned. “Very well, dear.”

Matthew’s ‘reading’ was make-believe, but Tyler would guard him and keep him from misadventure in my absence. I dressed in my lad’s clothes and raced upstairs to have a word with Mr Defoe.

He was seated at his desk, looking through a sheaf of old wanted posters. “I’ve commissioned several portraits,” he explained as he studied them. “A record of the pirates listed in my _History_. Naturally, the artist will work from existing, ah… sketches.” Then he looked up, a spark of inspiration in his eye. “And what of your family? Perhaps you’d care for a group portrait…?”

I shook my head. “Many thanks, but no. For one thing, you’ll find no drawing of my father, and sitting as a group would be impossible.” At least, not without bloodshed.

“Are you certain? The artist is eager to be known as a portraitist. He is already famed for his battle scenes.”

I laughed. “Aha! The perfect man to paint my family! But no---I’m afraid that’s final.”

Defoe sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, well. On to more mundane matters.” He removed two letters from his desk and handed them over. “One was delivered by Rufus Smith, and this one came to the _Golden Lion_.”

I put Rufus’ letter aside and opened the other, which bore a seal with Lord Hervey’s crest. I scanned its contents. He wished to clarify certain statements in my report on the Spanish prisoner, and would expect to interview me on --- I caught my breath.

“Hervey wants to see me tomorrow afternoon,” I exclaimed, “but I mean to sail at first light. I must see my father without delay.”

“You cannot spare a single day?”

“It might be more." I tapped the letter against my chin, thinking. "What if he has a new errand for me?”

“Tis unlikely. Lord Hervey is said to be dying. I doubt the Messengers will be overly busy until a successor is appointed.”

I picked idly at the letter's wax seal. “I can’t risk it. I refuse to put the Service before my family ---”

“Nor should you,” Defoe interjected with hearty approval. “You may know of my books upon the importance of the family. Allow me.” He plucked the letter from my hand, strode to his hearth, and cast it upon the fire. “There! You never received it.”

He resumed his seat and lit his pipe.

It was a grand gesture from a man who prided himself on his honesty. “You have my deepest thanks,” I murmured.

The letter from Rufus brought welcome news. Provisions would be loaded on the _Marianne_ tonight, upon payment to the victuallers, and Rufus was ready to sail to Shipwreck Island on my orders.

Then the bill for provisions fell out of the letter. I groaned as I looked at the amount. It matched, almost to the shilling, the amount I had received from Elizabeth. The paper shook a bit in my hands.

I couldn’t sail to Shipwreck Cove with three shillings in my pocket. If I needed funds to ransom Hector, if he was in trouble, if… I bit my lip. It was now essential to get ready money from Hector’s banker, though the prospect made me unaccountably edgy.

“Can you direct me to the London Exchange?” I asked, my throat dry.

Defoe had been observing me with some concern, but now his face brightened. “Oh, the ‘Change?” he said, beaming. “Have you never seen it? Half of London can be found there!”

He rose and paced about. “It is the greatest and finest of its kind anywhere. An exquisite edifice, with shops above and vaults below – the embellishments, the statues…” He seemed at a loss for words. At last, his face aglow, he said: “Tis a kind of emporium for the whole earth!”

“And where may I find this marvel?” I enquired. “I’ve no money to hire a chair – I must walk.”

“It isn’t far,” he said. “Just up the way to Whitechapel-road, turn left – that is, west – and ‘tis a ten minute walk.”

“How shall I recognise it?”

“By the weathervane. Look for an enormous gilded grasshopper.”

\- o -

From the moment I left Little Prescott-lane, I repeatedly checked and patted the pockets of the coat Mrs Hutson had lent me. Pickpockets abounded in the City, and I had no intention of losing my authorisation letter. Clever as always, Hector had cut it in half, like an Indenture --- one piece for me, the other sent off to his banker. I would present my half, and the two edges would be matched, allowing me access to his money.

In half a mile, I came to a gargantuan stone building of unparalleled opulence, extending at least two hundred feet on each side, with a tower of the same height. Even before I raised my eyes to the shimmering gold grasshopper atop the vane, I was certain this was the vaunted Royal Exchange.

A lofty archway flanked by four massive columns led me into a huge quadrangle rather like an open bazaar. I stared at the multitude of people from countries all round the globe, all busy with their own consultations and business. Defoe had given me a most accurate account of the place: every conceivable commercial pursuit could be found here.

Overcoming my initial amazement, I surveyed the arcade surrounding the quadrangle. My instructions were to find the sign of the Bell and Bar, which would identify Hector’s banker. But the two-storey arcade with its ornate porticoes and gilded statues of kings was no less daunting than the tumult of the quadrangle. I mounted the stairs and made my way through bustling crowds buying luxurious goods. Everyone aside from me seemed to know exactly where they were going.

I asked several people for directions, and was eventually sent to a corner of the arcade called the Jewellers Walk where, to my great relief, I found a carved sign showing a ship’s bell above a gilded bar, and beneath it, _Wm. Knight, goldsmith & jeweller_.

Mr Knight was a grey-haired man with a bland and timid countenance, but his sharp eyes hinted at a more suspicious nature. Carefully, he pieced together the two halves of Hector’s letter, then drew out his ledger and looked up the account. He spoke not a word, but placed his finger on an entry and studied the page in silence for some minutes. Then, adjusting his spectacles, he said: “Although you are certainly authorised to withdraw funds, I’m afraid there is no money in this account.”

“What do you mean, there is no money?” I stammered. “How can that be?”

“Regretfully, I cannot disclose any further information.” He handed me my portion of Hector’s letter and closed his book. “The document allows you to withdraw money, but that is all. You must direct all other enquiries to the account holder.”

I was too dumbfounded to make any reply. I turned away and wandered off through the arcade, feeling as though I had been stabbed. No money! What could have happened? Was it theft, embezzlement, or Hector’s own doing?

I descended the stairs in a daze over the possibilities, until I looked about and realised I had gone past the main floor and down to the basement level. Here there seemed to be mostly stock holders, insurers and speculators conducting their business in a clamor of loud voices.

At one end of this area, I spied a coffeehouse under a sign reading _Lloyd’s_. The interior was as noisy as the rest of the place – men were debating, bargaining, and passing along news gleaned from a quantity of newspapers provided by the house.  Still, hot coffee and a chance to sit down quite appealed to me just then.

I sat upon an empty bench and picked up one of the papers, but couldn’t concentrate. There was naught but bad news. A man found dead. _Was it a red-haired man with blue eyes?_

Another to be hanged. _Could it have been a pirate captain who loved green apples?_

A woman’s body discovered. _What would become of Matthew if I should die?_

Bankruptcies. A wife deserted by her husband and jailed for vagrancy. _Could this be my fate?_ My heart throbbed in a way that made my chest hurt.

I leaned on the table, resting my head on my hand. Was this what I had sensed from the start? Did I intuitively fear that betrayal or abandonment was in the cards?

From over my shoulder came a gentleman’s voice. “ _The Whitehall Evening Post?_ Oh dear. I recommend you get your news from the _Gazette_ , Mistress Bitter.”

The voice was velvety, well-spoken, and quietly insinuating, although somehow clearly audible despite the hubbub in the shop. It had a vaguely familiar ring to it, but I could not place the speaker.

I turned round. A tall gentleman in an expensive silk suit was standing behind me. He had very straight eyebrows, bright, deep-set eyes, and a rather thin mouth, which widened into a most engaging smile. “You don’t recognize me? Well, not such a surprise. It has been six years and our acquaintance was, shall we say, quite brief.”

“Coffee?” demanded a serving wench. She stared at me, no doubt suspecting that I meant to loaf about the coffeehouse and not buy anything.

“Ah! Yes, if you please,” the gentleman interceded smoothly. “For two.”

She poured out two coffees and waited with one hand on her hip. He extended a long, graceful hand that had plainly never done a day’s work, and gave her two pennies. Then he took a seat opposite me, laying his hat and walking stick upon the table.

With an earnest, friendly smile, he introduced himself. “We met at Kensington. I mistook you for a tradeswoman.” Observing my blank expression, he went on. “I was accompanying Lord Hervey? In his coach?”

“Oh, of course! And you are…?”

He gave an easy, negligent nod. “Lord Ruthven. Charles Icarus Ruthven. At your service.” There was a hint of watchfulness behind those mild, friendly eyes that made me question whether this was a chance encounter or a deliberate interception.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, my Lord. I came up to town just last night…”

His smile widened considerably. “Indeed? How fortunate to find you here --- but why the long face? Something you read in the _Post_?” He sipped his coffee.

“The _Post_?” Careful, I thought. Tell him a half-truth. It’s better than a lie. “Not at all. I was disappointed in a recent investment scheme. My shares appear to be worthless.”

“Ah, money!” He sat back with a careless laugh. “Well, that is always the sticking point, is it not?”

“And what do you hear of Lord Hervey?” I would have asked after the devil himself, to avoid discussing my finances. All the same, I felt as though I had just taken a step closer to some sort of trap, the nature of which was still unclear.

Lord Ruthven sighed and allowed his head to droop slightly. “Out of health. Thin, pale and wretched. Not as bad as he might be, but I fear we mustn’t hope for a full recovery. I am helping put his papers in order and discharging the tasks remaining to his office. Naturally, that includes the Messenger Service.”

“I see.” If that was so, then Lord Ruthven had to be aware of my appointment with Hervey. This was very anxious news to me.

“Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve just recalled that you were to see him tomorrow on the matter of the Spanish prisoner! Why don’t I take you to him today? Hervey will be overjoyed to see you – as much as anything brings him joy these days.”

Lord Ruthven had put me in checkmate quite handily. What could I do? Even if I made excuses, how did I intend to use the remainder of my day? I had been so certain of Hector’s promises that I had made no other plan. Perhaps the unlucky wife in the _Post’s_ story had been similarly jolted --- before she was deserted, impoverished and jailed.

On the other hand, if I spoke with Hervey at once, I could still sail tomorrow morning, assuming he gave me no other orders. I would be fully provisioned but otherwise poor. Once at Shipwreck Cove, I could seek advice from my father.

I glanced at Lord Ruthven’s bright, inquisitive face. “Of course,” I said. “I should very much like to see Lord Hervey.”

He uncrossed his long legs and I noted that his stockings looked as clean as if they had never been worn. We rose from the table at the same time, and he picked up his hat and stick. “Shall we?” he said, and waved me to the door.

He guided me up the stairs and across the quadrangle to the arch where I had entered the Exchange. I turned to face him. “Where are we going?”

Smiling, he lifted his chin and extended one arm in a sweeping motion. “Behold.”

Before us was Lord Hervey’s coach. The footman had already dismounted and was standing at the door he had opened. He bowed, and I saw that the steps had already been let down.

The timing was perfect – my presence and acquiescence had most certainly been planned for. Unease sent a little thrill of alarm over my skin, but there was no escape now.

“Great Burlington-street,” Lord Ruthven said to the coachman. Then he followed me up the steps and we sat across from each other as the coach was shut up again and began to move.

“We have both been looking forward to conversing with you,” he remarked in agreeable, soothing tones. “We’re anxious to learn much more of your extraordinary adventure.” He put his index finger to his lips for a moment and his eyes sparkled as if suppressing some mischievous thought. Then he said: “I do love stories about pirates.”

They wished to question me about pirates! My face grew cold as the blood drained from my cheeks. I wished myself out of this coach – away on a ship, across the world, taking Matthew to my father, reuniting with my scallywag husband – anywhere other than where I found myself.

“Do you indeed, my Lord?” I forced a smile and turned my face to the window, a bird looking through the bars of her cage. I still hoped to deflect their questions, but like the story of the deserted wife, I could find neither husband nor money, and Lord Ruthven would be my gaoler until it pleased him to release me.

* * *

 

 **Next: Old Coffin-Face** – Nina is questioned by the most dangerous man in London, and receives an unexpected offer.


	4. Old Coffin-Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nina is questioned by the most dangerous man in London, and receives an unexpected offer.

The ride to Burlington-street seemed to last for hours, though it must have been thirty minutes at most. Contrary to my expectations, Lord Ruthven showed no interest in questioning me. Instead, he kept his conversation to subjects that were as dull as they were irrelevant.

He began with news of the latest scandals and affairs at court, which had me clenching my teeth and pretending amusement whilst my nerves gnawed at my insides.

After a time, he turned from social to political gossip. I was reliably informed that Walpole and Hervey were “quite out of favour”, Carteret had “made a mess”, and the other ministers could not form a new government, though they squabbled like geese over scattered corn.

By the time we arrived, I was ready to jump out the nearest window, so eager was I to quit the coach.

To my dismay, Lord Ruthven seized the door handle and resisted the footman’s attempt to open it. With a disarming smile, he said, “Lately, the King has taken a keen interest in international diplomacy.”

“Has he?”

He nodded, but his smile faded to a look of regret. “Unfortunately, this often undermines the careful efforts of his ministers.”

“I see.” What did he expect me to say? Everyone knew that His Majesty and his ministers were at odds with each other, but my Messenger office was bestowed through regal authority alone. Was Ruthven sounding out my loyalty?

He let go the handle and I approached the front door of number 31 wondering what sort of interrogation awaited me within.

\- o -

We were admitted to a richly panelled front hall with a marble floor of red and white squares arranged like a chessboard. To my right was a magnificent oak staircase whose ample handrail and lower steps ended in a sweeping curve. A gilded chandelier lit the area, and one corner held a life-sized bronze statue of a fashionably dressed gentleman bearing some sort of torch or sceptre.

While we waited to be announced, Lord Ruthven tapped his fingers briskly against the head of his walking stick. At last he gave an exasperated sigh and threw open a door to his immediate left. “Go and wait in there,” he said. “I’ll fetch him down.”

One would have thought he was master of the house, rather than visiting the home of his superior and patron, but I did as he told me. He shut the door, and I surveyed Lord Hervey’s reception room, wondering if this was where the proposed interview was to take place. I own that I was curious about Hervey and hoped that the room might reveal something of his character.

The walls were panelled in white with touches of gilt to match the elaborate architraves atop the room’s three doors. I glanced up and caught sight of the classical fresco that covered the ceiling.

“Daedalus and Icarus!” I whispered. The two mythological figures were shown in flight, with Icarus’ wings losing a few feathers as Daedalus reached out in vain to save his son.

I crossed the soft Aubusson carpet to warm my hands at the marble fireplace. Above it hung a portrait of six fashionable gentlemen in a pastoral landscape. I laughed under my breath, thinking of Defoe’s efforts to portray his pirates in a like manner.

Looking closer, I recognised Lord Hervey, but no one else. Lord Ruthven was certainly absent. Hervey looked twenty years younger, sweet-faced and graceful. He must have cut quite a figure at court. In his hand was a paper that might be a plan of this very house.

Did the image of that happy time comfort Lord Hervey or make him melancholy, after the world had disappointed him?

The hallway echoed with two voices, a trace of sharpness in each one. Ruthven and Hervey seemed to be approaching the reception room; however, their talk grew fainter and was followed by the noise of a door shutting. They must have gone into a room next to the one I occupied.

After a few moments of muffled sounds, Lord Ruthven opened a connecting door through which I saw a study. He flashed an encouraging smile. “Mistress Bitter,” he said, “please join us.”

\- o –

Hervey’s study was as sumptuous as the reception room, with all blue hangings and crimson furniture. A fire crackled merrily beneath a chimney piece adorned with a frieze of three female masks and a grinning satyr head. Lord Hervey was seated in an armchair near the fire, wrapped in a silk _robe de chambre_ of gold brocade and deep blue velvet cuffs.   

It had been five years since I last saw him. His once pleasant features were now pinched and sour, as though he would spurn all society. Failing health could only account for a portion of his demeanour; he affected an air of ennui that suggested contempt and disappointment with life itself.

Although I had not been summoned to give my opinion on his house, an unexpected stab of pity prompted me to compliment him. “I have been admiring the painting of you and your friends above the fireplace,” I said.

“By Hogarth.” He spoke as if pleasantries annoyed him. “My colleagues and protégés.”

“You won’t find me among them,” Ruthven remarked. “It was long before my time.”

The corners of Hervey’s mouth twitched. “I suppose you saw Icarus on the ceiling?” he asked me as if changing the subject. “He is about to reap the fruits of his pride and ambition. He wouldn’t listen to Daedalus.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Ruthven said. He had moved to a desk and begun sorting papers.

I kept silent, having suddenly recalled that Lord Ruthven’s middle name was Icarus.

Hervey sighed. “Prudent master and vaunting protégé. It was ever thus.”

I couldn’t see Ruthven’s face but his words were clipped. “Oh, come now. Icarus knew the man who built the Labyrinth was a sly and conniving old master of deceit.”

“But I seem to recall he was right, wasn’t he?” Hervey murmured.

Ruthven glanced at me. “Please take a seat Miss Bitter. Small talk notwithstanding, we do have business to attend.” He waved me to a chair and unfolded a document I recognised as my report. Our interview commenced in earnest.

He studied the report for a few moments. A faint line appeared between his eyebrows as he looked up. “A general question first, merely so I understand your arrangement. What is your connection with the pirates who rely on you for their pardons – Barbossa, Teague, and, ah---” he consulted another paper “---Jack Sparrow?”

“They were able to be of service in a past venture I undertook for His Majesty. That is the substance of our connection. His Majesty may choose to reward them by issuing pardons, but that is his prerogative and none of my concern.”

Ruthven raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. “All the same, I think you’ll allow that it is curious, since His Majesty gives out favours as reluctantly as he parts with money.”

I looked down at my hands. “I suppose the King can deal with whomever he chooses.”

“Don’t let my questions discomfit you,” said Lord Ruthven. “I myself have used pirates from time to time. Dangerous friends are better than useless friends, are they not?” He shot a quick glance at Hervey as he said this, and the older man bristled slightly.

“Perhaps,” I replied. “But faithful friends are best of all, whatever their mode of living. Did you fare well with the pirates you employed?”

“To a degree.” He lowered his eyes to the desk, masking his expression. “But the last one disappointed me and has disappeared.”

I stifled a gasp. Was he speaking of my missing husband? Determined to show no particular interest, I replied, “You don’t say. How vexing for you.”

“ _Pas du tout_ ,” he said lightly. Something made me think it was a topic which he perhaps regretted opening.

“Now,” he said, taking up my report. “On to your prisoner exchange. You say Mr Norrington recovered a tablet. Were you able to see this artefact? What more can you tell us about it?”

“Mr Norrington carried it under his overcoat. Beyond the fact that it was small and light enough for him to do so, I observed nothing of the tablet.”

“Not during his fight with the Spanish priest? Not afterwards?”

“No. I looked to my own weapons during the fight, being afraid for my life. As soon as Mr Norrington fell, the crew seemed to go mad with gold fever. They swarmed everywhere, shouting, threatening, striking down any who opposed them. I begged to be spared, so they threw me into a longboat and left me to perish at sea.”

Ruthven’s eyes flicked up briefly from my report. “Yes. We’ll come to that presently,” he said. “Mr Norrington’s ship was sunk by a Spanish man o’ war. Did you see anything of this?”

“No. I heard it from Captain Sparrow.”

“Ah, yes. The pirate Sparrow, who rescued you.”

“Yes. Captain Sparrow.”

“His ship is the _Black Pearl_? This is the ship that brought you back to Tortuga? A voyage of some days, I should imagine.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

He laid my report on the desk, then slid it carefully to one side. It seemed to me that his eyes were a bit keener. “Tell me---what sort of maps did Sparrow have?”

I shrugged. “Charts of the Caribbean Sea, other parts of the Indies – the usual assortment most ships carry, I suppose.”

Ruthven exchanged a look with Hervey before he continued. “Did you see any maps in addition to these? Not necessarily charts, but any document resembling a map? I have information that he possesses an unusual map.”

Sao Feng’s map. I might have expected this. Now I understood the point of my interview. Professing ignorance would only take me so far---I would have to invent a story to cast doubt on the existence of any such map.

“I didn’t see anything of that sort,” I said, then assumed a look of growing awareness. “But... now I think of it, I did hear something.”

Both men stared at me intently as I began a yarn as preposterous as Jack’s sea turtles.

“One night, Captain Sparrow, being the worse for drink, boasted of having a legendary map. I asked to see this wonder but he became rather coy about it. After consuming more rum, he allowed that there was no such map, but he found that the rumour of it enchanted many ladies. At that point, he made the most loathsome advances.” I pressed my lips into a tight line of disgust. “I was forced to draw my weapon to discourage him.” I hoped that if word reached Jack, he would forgive my outrageous lies.

Hervey shook his head. “Most regrettable,” he sighed.

“Agreed,” said Ruthven. “But we cannot rule out the map just yet.” He turned back to me. “When you disembarked in Tortuga, did Sparrow indicate where he might go next?”

I brightened. “Yes, he did! Captain Sparrow left me in the care of a doctor, and made straight for a tavern called The Faithful Bride, where he said he would remain until his gold ran out.”

Ruthven made a note. “And have you heard any more from him?”

“No. I’ve been occupied with my own matters in Cornwall.”

Hervey and Ruthven exchanged another look. “Be frank with her,” said Hervey with a shrug.

Lord Ruthven stood up and, holding his hands behind him, began pacing the room. “Since the death of the Queen,” he said, “His Majesty is increasingly interested in eccentric ventures.”

“Eccentric ventures?”

With a single blink, he brought his gaze from the floor to my face. “Yes, I would call a search for a magic fountain ‘eccentric’, though you may disagree?”

“No indeed.” My stomach was slowly tying itself in knots, and I strained to keep still in my chair.

Hervey endeavoured to explain. “These harmless fancies occupy him, allowing his ministers to act with less... interference than if he had no other amusements. We therefore indulge him.”

So as not to appear an idiot, I ventured a question. “May I assume that this mythical fountain was the object of Mr Norrington’s expedition?”

“You may,” Hervey replied.

“I’m sorry he did not confide in me. Two heads are almost always better than one. Perhaps I could have been of more use to him.” More lies, but both men seemed to accept them.

Ruthven had stopped pacing and was looking out the window now, his back to the room. “I did have one other operative working on it,” he mused, “but he has grown less… reliable lately.”

“Another Messenger?”

He faced me. “An operative, in any case.” His voice was pleasant, but guarded. “And so you never heard Sparrow speak of a quest for the Fountain, Mistress Bitter?” he asked with a smile. “Just to be clear.”

“No, not at all.”

“Then you feel I would be justified in telling the King that these possible leads have gone nowhere?”

“Most assuredly.” It was a dead end and they knew it. Surely they would release me now. I pressed my shoulder blades back to relieve the tension in my neck.

“I appreciate your dedication and discretion,” said Ruthven. “We are almost finished here. Are you ready for your next commission?”

I froze. “So soon?” Bracing for an argument, I quickly explained. “It’s only that I’ve taken in my cousin’s child and hoped to deliver him to family in the West Indies.”

Ruthven’s countenance creased into a cheerful smile that made little lines at the corners of his eyes. “How fortunate! That is exactly where you are wanted. You are now working – as a Messenger, of course – for me. I am interested in any news you hear of Sparrow or the _Black Pearl_ , whether direct or indirect.”

I exhaled. Perhaps everything would work out. “Yes, my Lord.”

He was making notes again. “You will keep me informed. Although this is a royal commission, it is vital that you discuss it with no one else.”

“I can’t withhold information from King George,” I stammered.

Ruthven stopped writing and looked up, unsmiling. “Bear in mind that His Majesty’s fanciful ideas, although harmless in themselves, should not receive undue encouragement which might be deleterious to his health. I, not you, will relay all necessary reports to the King. If you prefer not to accept this assignment, we can stop here.”

How could I not accept the assignment? If they wanted Jack’s map, then they wanted the Fountain. Whether the King, Lord Ruthven, or both were interested parties, I had to ensure that their venture failed. But it would be a mistake to appear too eager.

I shrugged. “My acceptance depends on the _quid pro quo._ What are you offering in return?”

Lord Hervey was keeping quiet, but I saw a flicker of his old smile.

Ruthven said quickly: “Five hundred guineas now. More if you find Sparrow or his ship.”

I nodded. “I shall scour the Caribbean for any sign of him.” And I would report that neither he nor his ship could be found. But at least I would have a bit of coin in my pocket and I could look for Hector.

Ruthven’s good humour returned. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, there is one more thing you must comprehend precisely. There is a remote possibility that you may chance upon a person or persons who are seeking Sparrow just as you are, and claim to be under my orders. However”---he went to a chessboard set up near the window---“it is you _alone_ who are acting in my interest.”

Selecting a single pawn, he placed it on a square near the board’s centre.

I stared at the pawn, wondering about the “person or persons”, but decided further enquiries would be unwelcome. “I understand you,” I said.

Ruthven drew a key from his pocket and went to fetch the money from his strongbox.

As soon as he was gone, Hervey cleared his throat. “Since you show a modicum of wit, here is a piece of advice: the friends _he_ alludes to---” he indicated the door where Ruthven had exited “---are not _your_ friends.”

I hoped he would say more, but Lord Ruthven came straight back in with a heavy leather purse and a warrant for my services. “There is a sedan chair waiting at the door for you, to guard against footpads.”

As soon as we said our adieux, Ruthven saw me out of the house. Before handing me into the sedan chair, he remarked: “So now you’ve seen what’s left of Lord Hervey. What do you make of old coffin-face?”

“I’m sorry to see him so out of health.”

“Yes, well, this too shall pass.” The twilight might have concealed a smirk on Ruthven’s face. “For my part, I expect the Messenger Service will shortly be entrusted to me alone.”

Before I could enter the sedan chair, he put a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Did he say anything when you were alone with him?” he asked, then laughed softly, fondly. “He loves to interfere with ladies’ business, you know.”

I smiled and removed his hand from my shoulder. “Oh, I’m hardly a court lady, Lord Ruthven. And I dislike interference in my business.” Then I took my seat in the sedan chair and left him standing at Lord Hervey’s door.

\- o -

Later that night, I sat near the settle, watching Matthew sleep. He looked peaceful enough now, having poured out his energy in a fit of temper when I said Tyler could not sail with us.  He argued as close as a lawyer against all my objections, but when he learned there was a dog on Shipwreck Island, his vehemence lessened a bit. Happily, I would soon have my father’s help in managing this wild colt of a lad.

Our luggage lay heaped by the door, ready for our departure in the morning. I had packed for a long absence, even taking the journal Defoe had kept for me. One look had assured me that it was exactly what I thought – the second volume of Ponce de Leon’s log. I would find time to study it at Shipwreck Cove.

I tucked in Matthew’s bedclothes without disturbing him. He slept so soundly only a cannon blast could have awakened him. Did I ever sleep this deeply as a child? I smoothed his hair, and noticed how like Hector he was---the same long eyes, and perhaps something about the cheekbones. Just then he moved in his sleep, and the resemblance faded. Still, in certain attitudes I always caught a glimpse of his father.

As I lay abed, I could find no posture or arrangement of pillows that suited me. The question of how would I find Hector kept me wakeful and distressed. If Jack could not find him using his compass, what was I to do---and what welcome I could expect if I succeeded?

At last I determined to put all my trust in Edward Teague; my father would surely know what to do. Yet when I finally drifted to sleep, I dreamt of neither Hector nor my father, but of the black-haired man in the water, swimming round a fearsome ship and laughing triumphantly.


	5. The Room With the Compass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nina brings Matthew to Shipwreck Cove and Teague contends with a very angry Pirate Lord.

 

“Love is a passion full of anxiety and fear.” – Ovid, _Heroides_

We set sail the next day, and for several weeks, the _Marianne_ made a pleasant and rapid passage across the trade winds. There was almost no idle time for our small crew, and we all had a full share of duties. But as we drew closer to our destination, we reached the latitudes called the Doldrums. The breezes grew lighter, then departed altogether. The _Marianne_ began to drift, slowly twisting round in a flat, crystalline sea whose surface perfectly reflected the burning sun and radiant, cloudless sky.

We could do nothing but scan the horizon, hoping to see one of the sudden squalls that are common to these parts. Even the gusts from a brief rainstorm would suffice to sweep us out of the Doldrums and into fairer winds.

Each night, I watched the smooth seas mirror the moon and stars in their turn as I questioned the wisdom of searching for Hector. Matthew plainly needed his father, and I was still haunted by a dream of impending doom. But the missing money, our fight, the months of silence---all stung me. Hector might have simply broken with me in the quickest, most brutal way, hoping I would trouble him no longer.

Yet something in my heart and stomach ached for answers. Where could he be? Was he in pain? I reckoned if his absence was deliberate, he could tell me to my face. At least then I could lay my fears to rest. There was really only one course open to me: I had to banish my doubts and find him, no matter the reason for his disappearance.

No more than a day after I made this decision, a squall blew up and drove the _Marianne_ close to the south-east trades. We renewed our water supply from the rain, and made straight for Shipwreck Cove, where I hoped to enlist my father’s aid.

\- o -

We made port late one afternoon on a cloudy day, and I went straight to the Keeper’s quarters, though I knew it was my father’s habit to sleep until early evening. I was therefore not surprised to find Mr Bartholomew guarding the doorway.

He gave me a quizzical look. “Didn’t know ye was expected.”

“I’m not,” I said, “but I need to see him.”

“Not now,” he said. “He’s resting. He won’t be on deck for at least three more hours.”

“Right, then.” I had no wish to startle him awake and find myself on the business end of a hastily fired pistol. “I’ll come back when he’s up and about.” I took a step back, then hesitated. “May I stay in the room with the compass, do you think?”

Bartholomew blinked happily behind his spectacles and nodded. “Aye, miss. I’ve to stand guard here---but of course, ye know yer way.”

\- o -

The room with the compass (it had no other name) was a unique part of the Keeper’s quarters, and I had asked to lodge there knowing Matthew would find it captivating. His face glowed with delight as soon as we entered the circular room, and he studied the design on its floor as I unpacked our belongings.

I never knew the story behind it, but some long-forgotten Pirate Lord had inlaid an elaborate image of a mariner’s compass in the polished teak floor, with every part of the “rose” done in exotic wood and mother-of-pearl. The entire figure was over ten feet wide, with a single strip of Bloodwood set in, representing a compass needle pointing North.

Matthew looked suspicious. “How does it move?” he said, testing it with his foot.

“It’s only a picture on the floor, love, not a real compass.” I was distracted, rummaging through my duffle. “What do you think of the walls and the ceiling?”

The dark blue walls rose far above our heads, curving into a dome as if we were surrounded by the night sky. The dome was studded with rough bits of crystal, exactly where the stars hung over Shipwreck Island each year at the summer solstice. Matthew gazed up at them in silent wonder.

The old buccaneers said the Prime Meridian had once been located here, and the room was steeped in other forgotten legends. I had been younger than Matthew when I was first brought here, with no notion of pirates or where my father and his cousin were taking me. But the room was as familiar to me as if I had seen it the day before.

In a corner of the duffle, my fingers touched the _Santiago’s_ log book. As I extracted it, another object fell out as well---the amputation clamp Rufus had given me years ago. How determined he had been to turn me into a surgeon! I put the log book under my bed pillow and began to work out just what I would say to Edward Teague.

\- o -

When we entered the library after supper, Teague had just emerged from his sleeping quarters. He blinked and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “For an ‘allucination you look bloody convincing,” he said, with the dry, throaty laugh I knew so well. Then he smiled at Matthew. “‘Ere, lad,” he said, opening his arms as my son ran to him, “Come tell grandad what yer been up to, eh?”

“He’s been cooking up mischief,” I said. Over Matthew’s protests, I told Teague of his frequent fights with other boys, and how he and Henry were caught on the Mermaid’s roof, bombarding travelers with dung.

I frowned at Matthew. “You were fortunate! That constable could have arrested you. He could have taken you to gaol!”

“No he couldn’t,” Matthew replied, standing very straight with his chin out, looking every inch a Barbossa.

“And why not?” I demanded.

“Because he didn’t have the evidence!” my infant prodigy insisted.

Teague inhaled sharply and turned away, but not before I saw that his chest was puffed out and he was hiding a grin. Clearing his throat several times, he took his grandson’s hand. “D’ ye like dogs?”

Matthew nodded, and Teague beckoned to Mr Bartholomew, who had appeared in the doorway. “I’ve got a clever little rascal lurkin’ about somewhere. Mr Bartholomew ‘ere can take you t’ play with ‘im.”

As soon as we were alone, my father turned to me, mightily pleased. “He didn’t have the _evidence_?” he chortled. “When I was that age I was lucky t’ know me own name.” He shook his head. “The _evidence_! That one’ll make a lawyer.”

That was one way of looking at it. Teague’s smile almost masked the sharp glance he darted my way, as he patted my shoulder. “Now, m’girl,” he said, his smile fading, “why ain’t yer in London?”

“We were... but...” I made a distracted gesture.

He nodded. “Sit down, lass. Looks like ye could use a drink.”

Once we were seated with our silver tankards in hand, I decided to get straight to the point. “Hector stole the _Pearl_ months ago,” I said, “and disappeared. Even Jack can’t find him. He says they’ve sunk.”

Teague grunted. “And what do you say?”

“I say I don’t believe it,” I replied with some warmth. “There’s no body, no wreckage---nothing! I’m going to find him, whatever it takes.” I waited for his reaction.

He drank off his rum in silence and set down the tankard. “Where’s that blasted map? Is it on the _Pearl_?”

His question caught me off guard. “No, Jack still has it---it’s always under his coat.”

Teague seemed oddly relieved.

“I need your help.” I twisted my hands together, nervous of being refused. “Long voyages are so hard on children... I can’t in good conscience take Matthew on what may be an endless search, and it’s far too risky to leave him in London. If I could leave him here, in your charge, I would know he was safe. Can you help me?”

“Aye, Matthew’s no bother at all,” he said, frowning. “But you haven’t said-“

He broke off to listen. There was a commotion outside the door, and Captain Jocard burst in. Teague indicated I should stay where I was.

“Evening, Jocard,” he said, leaning back in his chair and resting his boots on the table. “I see you got me answer. What is it now? I’m conversin’ with my daughter.”

Jocard scowled. “I cannot wait on you and your family!” he shouted. “You must do something! No pirate should use dark voodoo to make zombies---it angers the _loa_ and puts us all in danger!”

“I told you, the Code don’t cover it,” Teague’s voice was utterly calm, but as he raised his eyebrows, his pupils seemed to grow into black, glassy pools---the sure sign an explosion was imminent. I shifted uneasily. My father’s temper was legendary for good reason and I hoped Jocard knew better than to persist.

Jocard clenched his fists momentarily, but then took a deep breath and nodded. “Very well. Let us hope the _loa_ will curse the guilty and spare the innocent.” He turned abruptly and strode out of the room, his embroidered robe billowing behind him.

Teague was silent for a moment, but his dangerous humour seemed to lift.

“What on earth was that about?” I asked.

“Vengeful voodoo spirits. Or some rubbish like that.” He looked at me from the corners of his eyes. “Speakin’ of the Code, I suppose you know what it says about any man who falls behind?”

I froze, and my words were nearly inaudible. “It says he’s to be left behind.”

“So ye don’t propose to keep to the Code, eh?”

“No!” I leapt out of my chair and began pacing. “Hector is everything to me. Besides-“

“I know.” He held up a hand. “They’re more like guidelines. Do ye know where he might’ve gone, or why?”

“No. I only know my place is at his side.”

Teague grunted. “So the tale I heard is false---that the two of you had a blazin’ row?”

My mouth fell open. How could he know?

I saw one side of his mouth twitch into a smile. “Just tell me this, lass: was it his hat or his boots that ye flung into the cess pit?”

“His boots.” I cleared my throat nervously. “And his breeches. Then I... more or less took to my heels before he could catch me.”

Teague said nothing, but his sides were shaking in silent laughter.

But nothing about it amused me. I lowered my eyes. “I’m not proud of what happened. I thought I’d hear something, but I was arrested, and then Jack told me he was missing.” I looked up wildly and met Teague’s dark stare. “I can’t escape the feeling that he’s in danger.“

He shook his head. “Barbossa can take care of himself better ‘n you can. You’ve to face your limits.”

Immediately my chest began to tighten. “How can I know what my limits are until I test them?”

Teague put his hand down firmly on the table. “’Ave a care, Nina. I know your heart tells ye to make haste, but find out everything first. Don’t rush into trouble. Sleep on it and see what you think tomorrow.”

\- o -

In the dark of night, Matthew and I were ascending the highest peak of Shipwreck Island with no effort at all, as is the way with dreams. We reached the summit and found an unimpeded view. The sky was thick with countless brilliant stars in the midst of which we could see the foggy trail of the Milky Way.

“Where is Orion? Where are the Seven Sisters?” I asked, as Matthew found each constellation in turn.

I held his hand as I pointed to a moving spark of light. “Look a falling star!”

Matthew pointed out a second star, then I noticed a third. As we watched, more and more stars gradually began to fall until it seemed as if they would all rain down upon our heads.

“Why are so many falling?” I stammered.

“They’re sad for Papa,” said Matthew’s plaintive little voice.

I woke with a sharp gasp and the absolute conviction that something gravely and profoundly evil was drawing near my husband. There was no time to lose---but I still had no idea where to turn first.

Further sleep proved to be impossible. I couldn’t imagine a life without Hector. Restlessly, I scanned the eerie ceiling with its crystal stars whilst Matthew slumbered peacefully in his bed. Turning on my side, my gaze came to rest on the inlaid compass. I had an impulsive wish that it were a magical compass, that its needle would spontaneously move and point me towards Hector.  

Had no one in Shipwreck Cove heard any news? A sudden idea quickened my pulse.

Although I guessed the hour might be close to dawn, the taprooms of Shipwreck Cove are always open. Perhaps someone there---customer or barkeep---had news of the _Pearl_. This slender hope drove me to action, so I dressed quietly and stole out of the room.

When I reached the door of the nearest taproom, I was surprised to find it nearly empty. The only two customers were Captain Jocard at one end of the room, and at a corner table, none other than Joshamee Gibbs.

I took a quick step back before I could be seen. What ill luck was following me! Conversation with Mr Gibbs was out of the question. Every word would go straight back to my brother, and I didn’t want him joining me in my search.

My spirits sank. Feeling baulked at every turn, I left the taproom for the Cove’s library. Surely I could find a book there that would take my mind off my troubles for an hour or two.

The library was dark, but on the reading table stood a candelabra. I lit all five candles, and took it over to the shelves to see what ancient tomes were stored there. All the books sounded miserably dull, many were in Latin, and I was ready to give up, when I heard a cough from someone just inside the doorway. I turned quickly and caught my breath.

Captain Jocard appeared in the candelabra’s circle of light, holding a small, decrepit book. For a moment, he looked surprised to see me, but his expression quickly became guarded.

“For the Keeper,” he declared, laying the book on the table. “No one else. Voudou’s secrets must not be shared, but this time the loa say they understand. If Teague studies this, he will see that Blackbeard must be stopped.”

It was my turn to look surprised. “Blackbeard? Isn’t he dead?” I tried in vain to recall the story Rufus had told me.

Jocard regarded me with open scorn. “I see the Keeper’s cub knows as little of Blackbeard as she does of voudou.”

“Then why not instruct me?” I asked, thinking to taunt him. “Surely the Keeper’s cub, as you call me, knows best how to persuade him.”

I expected an angry retort, but Jocard was silent for a moment before saying: “This may be where the spirits are guiding me after all... “ He fixed his eyes on mine. “I will teach you so you can persuade Teague. But you must never try to call the loa yourself.”

He was in deadly earnest. It was too late for me to back out or pass off my remark as a jest.

“Why would I want to?” I said, adding, “I don’t even know what a loa is.”

“The loa are the spirits. People call them to bargain for favours.”

“Is that what Blackbeard did?”

“No. The loa only speak to those with second sight. His bokor man has the gift, but serves only the evil spirits, the loa of curses and black magic. That is why Blackbeard can make a zombie crew. This offends the Baron, and one day Blackbeard will pay a heavy price. I hope it does not fall on all pirates to pay for his misdeeds.”

I was becoming intrigued in spite of myself. “Who is this Baron?”

“Baron Samedi. He guards the gate between the living world and the dead. He takes every soul to the other world to protect them from becoming zombies. So now you understand why he is angry at Blackbeard.” He pushed the book towards me.

My eyes followed his hand, entranced. There were secrets in that book, and they called to me.

I cleared my throat. “Perhaps I could look through this before I trespass on your time. Then I could ask you about anything I don’t understand.”

“That may be more than you think. It comes from Saint-Domingue.”

“I can read French. How different can it be?”

He smiled. “You can tell me that when you have tried to read it.”

\- o -

Alone in the library, I flipped through the book. There was no proper beginning or indication where to start. The pages were heavy parchment, stiffened and damaged by moisture, mould and age. Some were filled with text in some form of Creole, others had inky, detailed drawings.

I had to sound out each word, hoping it derived from French (which not all did). In the end I understood only certain passages, but I learnt enough to fire my curiosity and raise my hopes.

The book said each loa had certain interests and powers, but mortals with second sight could ask these spirits to grant a favour in exchange for... something. That was where the letters became indecipherable. But if supernatural help was the only way to find Hector, then I was ready to use it, no matter the cost.

One loa in particular caught my attention---the same one mentioned by Jocard. According to the book, Baron Samedi waits at the crossroads of the living and dead world. He digs the grave and welcomes the soul into the afterlife. No one can leave the world without the Baron knowing about it.

The more I considered it, the more certain I was that this was the loa who could help me find Hector. The dreams that had plagued me all my life must have been leading me towards this moment. In an instant, I remembered Tia Dalma’s words to me: _You have the gift, but don’t use it_. Finally I could accept and make peace with this ‘gift’, because it would let me call Baron Samedi.

I closed the book. Captain Jocard could tell me more about the Baron and how to summon him. Spurred on by the prospect of finding Hector, I strode out of the library and ran straight into Teague. When I explained my plan to him, he was adamant in opposing me.

“When I told ye to find out everything, I didn’t mean this,” he said. “Can ye really be this desperate?”

“It might be nonsense, but it might lead me to him. Why not try it? What’s the harm if it doesn’t work?” I tried to move past him, but he seized me by my elbows.

“You don’t understand,” he said, locking eyes with me. “It ain’t when it don’t work – it’s when it does work! It’s too dangerous---something you’ve never encountered. There’s no way to prepare yerself for what might happen.”

“I don’t care! Do you think I’ve never dealt with the unknown before?”

He shook his head. “Not like this ye haven’t. Leave it, if ye know what’s good for ye, and keep to the Code. Forget him! Raise yer glass to his memory if ye like.”

I gasped and twisted away from his grip. “Not while there’s a breath left in me! I swear I’ll find him and bring him back!”

My father’s expression grew stern. “How d’ye even know he’s alone? P’raps ‘e found a woman to look after ‘im.”

It was almost as if he were saying this to deliberately hurt me. My face must have looked white as a ghost, for he tried to ease my distress. “Sooner or later, we all get beaten, love. He’s had a good run.”

His soothing words only made me dig in my heels. “He isn’t beaten. And if he’s with a woman, he can damn well tell me himself. I won’t leave my son to grow up fatherless without knowing the reason why.”

“You were three when Harry’s wife died—the only mother you’d ever known. You managed, didn’t you?”

I pressed my fingers hard against my forehead. “Oh, yes, I managed,” I said. “I think it’s time you heard how. After Isabelle died, Harry told me she was in heaven, watching over me.” I steadied myself and continued. “I missed her so much that for the next five years of my life, I would steal out of our house at night and spend hours looking at the sky, trying to see my mother looking back at me from behind the stars.”

Teague was quiet.

I drew a deep breath and added: “How can I give up? I’ll never stop looking for him.”

After a moment, my father put a comforting arm round my shoulders. “I never knew,” he said with a sigh. “Well, great captains aren’t made in calm seas. Go see what Jocard can tell ye.”

* * *

 

Next: **Invocation.** Nina summons the Baron.


End file.
